


Shades of dust

by Sloopy



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:44:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8120425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloopy/pseuds/Sloopy
Summary: War was hell. It shouldn't be love, too.





	

On quiet days in his study, while suburbia flourishes under the Californian sunshine and he can hear the laughter of Erin and her friends playing tag in the front yard, BJ closes his eyes and thinks back to Korea.

The primary colours of America are instantly replaced by sepia. Korea reveals itself in shades of dust and swirls of movement – ambulances racing through the compound, doors banging open, people running. He sees Potter in the middle creating order from chaos, unflappable Margaret steering her nurses, the glint of sunlight off Father Mulcahy's glasses, Charles hurrying ahead of them into the O.R, Klinger shouting as he heaves a stretcher. And as ever he sees Hawkeye, his lithe form already up on a jeep, dexterous fingers busy checking for the hurt, for the wounds that he can find and fix.

_And the wounds beyond reach? Well. They're a slow bleed. ___

If he's feeling indulgent then he'll let his thoughts run on past the operating room and focus instead on happier moments – the practical jokes and all-night card games in the Swamp, the many ways they tried to divert their attention from the war. He'd think of Potter offering scotch and wisdom on the rocks in his office, and the way Margaret would surprise them with her sudden laughter. He'd think of Father Mulcahy's kindness, how he would always listen without judgement. Then there'd be Charles Winchester the Third – ah, Charles. Chuckles. A worthy foil to all their pranks with a carefully guarded soft-centre. Klinger and his madcap antics yet rock-solid support when the helicopters came calling. 

And then there'd be Hawkeye. Always Hawkeye. A mercurial Pied Piper dancing through his mind, his jester's motley bloody scrubs and a scruffy red robe. He'd remember the way Hawkeye would laugh with such abandon, blue eyes glinting with mischief , before firing a sling-shot of words towards bureaucracy, little caring of consequences.

_The thought of Hawkeye is a thorn in his heart. Pierce. So aptly named. ___

Consequences seemed a long way from Uijeongbu. The olive-drab kernel was the centre of their world, bordered by shelling, traversed by wounded, held together by frenzied one-liners, rot-gut booze, and surgical tape. Everything else existed in a hinterland far beyond its outline – Mill Valley, Crabapple Cove, Peg and Erin, Daniel Pierce – a cosy litany of places and names made indistinct by desperate reality. The idea of home was hard to sustain on a constant diet of life and death, death and life. Who can stand tall in the eye of such a storm? No one can exist so close to mortality without paying a toll. The draft notice gave no indication of the exchange rate but they all paid, the ones near and the ones far, without ever getting to shake hands on the deal or choose the currency. 

_Hawkeye in his red robe, tall and lean, Martini in hand, watching the sun-rise. 'It's so beautiful, Beej,' he murmurs. ''How can that even be possible?' ___

And now the movie flickers as the inner projectionist changes the reel for one of the secret tapes hidden in his heart. As he sees himself join Hawkeye watching the sun-rise, as if he's a voyeur instead of a willing participant. In this scene it's Hawkeye who moves first, Hawkeye's arm that encircles his waist, Hawkeye who brings his face towards his, who kisses him first. It's Hawkeye who is the guilty party. But that's Mr Married rearranging the past to align with his future. It was never Hawkeye first. 

It was him.

Now comes the pain of the wound beyond reach, the slow bleed of realisation. Benjamin Franklin Pierce loved him, he knows that now. To be truthful he knew it then. It was revealed in the softness of Hawkeye's voice, the teasing twinkle in his eyes. It was in the focus Hawkeye always had for him, like he was the centre of the world and making BJ laugh was the only thing that made sense in the whole of the god-damn crazy war. And didn't he just bask in Hawkeye's bright warm attention? Bask wasn't the word; he revelled in it. Until he thought it was gone.

_Stepping in the mess tent in his uniform, feeling so clean his toes squeaked, waiting for the sarcastic comment and slow hand-clap Hawkeye will inevitably give, looking forward to it, prepared for it, and then not hearing his friend's voice in the crowd. Instead he discovers Hawk was sent to the front – in his, BJ's – place._

The front. 

Shells. Mortar bombs. Snipers. Machine guns. And Hawkeye out there in the thick of it. If he should die... 

The thought shattered Mill Valley. It shattered him. The relief he felt on seeing Hawkeye safely back again was only tempered by a flash of fear at the strength and depth of his feelings. A sudden rushed awakening, ah - so that's what this is, that's what this means...

Hawkeye's back, here safe in front of him but for the first time he sees the man's vulnerability, the small tremor of his hand holding the Martini glass, the grey in his hair, the signs of stress and mortality. Such a strange swirl of feeling, a rip-tide pulling him far from his familiar shore as they talk and drink until the war recedes but Charles' empty cot stays in sharp, mocking focus. The whisper in his mind – Charles is on post-op and won't be back, won't be back, won't be back... 

A trickle of sweat inching down his spine. 

The bite of gin. 

A dog barks in the night, far away; once, twice, lonely and mournful. 

The world rolls over and goes back to sleep but not them, not now. Hawkeye is looking at him with a silent question. The space between their cots is the sea of Galilee and yet BJ stands. Puts down his glass. And gives his answer.

Not everything in life is black and white, Peg, he wants to say. Sometimes life is painted in shades of dust and who knew, who knew?

Afterwards he hugs Hawkeye tight and stares up at the canvas ceiling. Dear God, he thinks, wondering who he is really addressing. This can't be sinning, Padre. Cheating on Peg, yes – strike me down with all you've got. Being with Hawkeye, no. Just, no. He presses a fierce kiss to Hawkeye's head and looks up again, as if in challenge. Hawkeye moves and meets his gaze with amused blue eyes but smiles instead of speaks, and kisses him again, and again and again... __

BJ knew the war would change him, but he never dreamt in what way. He thought he'd feel anger, bitterness, that he'd rail against the war, that he'd turn cynical. These were the emotions he was expecting; he wasn't prepared for anything else. And so he told himself that what he had with Hawkeye was momentary for both of them, just a way of coping, their method of dealing with the conveyor belt of destruction that they saw every day. That's how he sold it to himself as it didn't make sense otherwise. Hawkeye was a man. A brilliant, genius, goof of a man, but a man nonetheless, and so what they had couldn't be anything more than what it was, just a fling, a thing, a fling-thing. And yet... BJ was the happiest he'd ever been. Free. Perfect. And blind.

He didn't let himself see how close Hawkeye was to a breakdown. He needed Hawkeye to be strong, hell, they all needed Hawkeye to be strong. He was the leader of their merry band of men and women, the chief surgeon, the one who they all turned to, the one they leaned upon. And everyone, from Potter down, leaned hard and heavy and never eased up the whole of that god-damn war. None of them, himself included, let themselves notice that Hawkeye's shoulders were failing to support his own weight, let alone carry theirs. That his laughter was tinged with desperation, that his behaviour was growing erratic, that his anger was harder, that his temper flared like a touchstone. All those signs and yet they let Hawkeye carry on trying to be their beacon, their heart of the unit, until he broke apart. 

Seeing him at that psychiatric hospital... it scared BJ. Acknowledging the feeling meant responsibility, meant accountability, meant saying to himself that this is not fleeting, that this is more than momentary. He couldn't accept it; that wasn't part of the deal. And so he'd rattled on about Erin and a stream of nonsense, all the while conscious of words unspoken, of words he couldn't say. Instead he was mad as hell at all the people who said Hawkeye needed treatment. He's fine, he wanted to shout. Of course he'll be fine as I've no room left in my life to think otherwise. Hawkeye will be fine and I have to go home. 

And so Hawkeye was released and returned, pronounced cured, and it was one more thing not mentioned, one more thing to tiptoe around in their tent, at least until they drank enough to ignore it all and pretend what they had would last forever.

The end of war announcement over the tannoy in the O.R. Hawkeye's eyes above his surgical mask, always so expressive. BJ can't hold his gaze, can't process it, instead blinking over the soldier he's sewing back together – hey kid, you'll live, Uncle Sam has promised – and thinking, furiously thinking... thoughts already half in Mill Valley as he feels it reform, grow solid under his skin. And it hurt, dammit, it hurt. He wasn't expecting that, either. What sort of person is sad the war is over?

Hawkeye understood the truth of it before he did. The man was no coward, never had been. That was Hawkeye's blessing and his curse, to see beyond the surface, every facet and every shade, never giving him any peace. It was a chicken and a child. It was heaven and hell. It was Korea and America. It was a man and a woman. Hawkeye knew the moment the war ended, they ended. It was an unspoken agreement. BJ was never going to leave Peg or leave his little girl. That was the way of the world.

_Walking back to the Swamp in a dream but aware, so aware that Hawkeye had followed him, was behind him, and Charles was back in the scrub room talking to Potter. The tent is empty, the shaft of sunlight over his cot thins as the door closes behind him. A hand on his arm and he is turning, heart quickening as Hawkeye kisses him – one kiss, deep and heartfelt and reckless and already feeling over – and then Hawkeye is stepping away, looking at him, searching his face for something BJ cannot give. The moment stretches long and thin and BJ finally, wordlessly nods. Charles pushes open the Swamp door and pauses at the tableaux in front of him. “Not interrupting anything, gentlemen?” he enquires., plum in throat as ever. Hawkeye glances at Charles, and then looks back at BJ. “No, we're done here,” he says, closing his eyes for a breath before turning and walking out of the Swamp. Out of BJ's life. ___

And I let him go, BJ thinks. He even, God help him, felt relieved that it would be so easy, so relatively painless. After all, it was just a fling, just madness, just Korea. He had the most to lose in his eyes, so it didn't resonate. Hawkeye didn't resonate. He couldn't let him be part of going home. 

Oh, the irony. 

Despite BJ's best intentions the man that returned to Peg wasn't the man she had married. It was as subtle as a splinter but it worked its way inside their marriage until it created a wedge, a gap that couldn't be broached. Too much of him had been worn away and replaced by a dark-haired man who had once looked across at him in the dead of night and asked a silent question. And he had answered that man by moving to him, closing the gap between them until there was no gap, no Korea, no war, and nowhere else they'd rather be.

That's a slow bleed for you. You never notice them until its too late. Back then what they had was madness. And now? In the Mill Valley pure-American sunshine? 

It hit him with the force of an aneurysm. It always did. He'd left the best part of himself behind in Korea, and what's worse at the time he never even knew it. 

It wasn't fair, thought BJ, opening his wet eyes and gazing unseeingly at the study walls. Erin is still laughing outside. The sun still shines. 

War was hell. It shouldn't be love, too. But it was. Oh yes, it was. 

Finest kind.


End file.
